


Falling

by reclav



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of The Purification, Mentions of Vicente Valtieri, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Weddings, sorry farwil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29201490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclav/pseuds/reclav
Summary: It's been months since Farwil has last seen the Hero of Kvatch, now the Champion of Cyrodiil. When he appears on his doorstep, with a proposal of marriage, who is he to refuse?
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Farwil Indarys
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Falling

"Marry me, Farwil."

The knight looks down at the Champion of Cyrodiil, standing outside in the thundering rain.

And yet, despite Pallas' soaked hair, and the scorch marks on his golden elven armor, the bruise blooming beneath his left eye marring his smooth dark skin, Farwil's heart beats uncontrollably.

Pallas hasn't come back to Cheydinhal as often as he used to, Farwil hasn't seen him in months.

And yet-

_And yet-_

Gods, Farwil thinks.

Pallas does look so beautiful, even as ragged as he looks now.

"I… I haven't seen you in-"

"I know. I'm sorry." Pallas looks down at the street, at the water welling between the cobblestones and running down. "I… I've been busy. I… I know this is very sudden, and I know that we haven't-we haven't spoken much, in a long time-"

 _Apart from that time you nearly took me on the moon bridge, and we were very much drunk,_ Farwil wants to add, but he doesn't, because that was the most romantic evening he's had in his life, and he thinks about it every night, as he lies awake and touches his lips, to know that Pallas has touched them.

"-but I care for you, deeply, and when I was almost killed in the siege on Bruma, my only thought was of you. I thought of… of you, and how proud you looked with your armor all gleaming, how your hair curled round your face that night, on the bridge…."

_So he thinks about it too._

"I should've said something earlier, I know. I should've wrote, and said I was going to come and propose to you-"

"No, no," Farwil steps closer, and reaches out for Pallas' hand. Pallas takes it. 

He finds the contrast between his heavy steel gauntlet and Pallas' light golden bracer symbolic.

"I… I accept. I'd want nothing more than… than to be yours. And for you to be mine. I've thought so much about you. The way you speak to me… the way you understand me deeply, intimately." Farwil looks into Pallas' eyes. "I'd be honored, Pallas, to take your hand in marriage, and for you to take mine."

They watch each other in silence.

"So it… it's settled, then?"

"Yes."

"What… what now?"

Farwil snorts. "You're the one who proposed. I'd hope you had an idea of what to do next."

Pallas bites his lip.

"I… I didn't plan on getting this far."

"A traditional Dunmer ceremony would be hard to do here, even in Cheydinhal."

"Too many fire hazards." 

Farwil laughs. "Indeed."

"We could… we could go to the chapel of Mara, in Bravil." Pallas wants to stroke Farwil's cheek with his knuckle as he usually does, but his glove is stained with blood and he doesn't want to taint Farwil's skin. "It wouldn't be a grand ceremony-"

"I wouldn't care, as long as I'd be with you, every word, every secret, everything." Farwil smiles so brightly, and it catches Pallas off guard.

He leans in, and further surprising Pallas, kisses him. Pallas almost wants to melt against him, but the combined weight of his armor and the claymore on his back might topple the both of them.

"I don't know if you're going to like my secrets."

"Then keep them to yourself, until the time comes, and we can face them together." Farwil's voice is so self-assured that it makes Pallas feel a warmth he hasn't felt since Martin…

Well.

Pallas quickly shakes off that thought.

"Bravil, on Sundas morning. Can you be there?"

"I can try." Farwil wants to kiss him again so badly, but Pallas is already moving away. "Are you leaving so quickly?"

"I have business to attend to."

"I hope this won't be a recurring theme in our marriage."

"No," Pallas shakes his head. "I promise you that. You'll have me to yourself as much as you'd like, you need only ask."

Farwil isn't sure about how much weight to put on those words, but he trusts them.

Pallas seems to sense this, and he smiles, before turning and disappearing into that dark, rainy night, leaving Farwil alone under the awning.

+

It's Fredas night, three days since Pallas has asked for his hand in marriage, and Farwil has to leave now if he wants to make it to Bravil in time. 

And he hasn't spoken a word of it to his father.

He supposes, before the gate, he would've laughed and said no, who do you think you are, to Pallas, and told his father about it, and forgotten all about it by the next day.

But the gate had opened, and taken him in its embrace, and Pallas had ripped him from it to take into his own arms as a lover.

Farwil's done so much, learned so much from Pallas, in these past few months, that he hasn't learned in near thirty years of his life.

He's become more bold too, perhaps not in his previous arrogant manner, but now, he thinks for himself.

What makes Farwil Indarys happy? What does Farwil Indarys, a spoiled brat, want in life?

He sits on the bed and looks at the clothes he's haphazardly dumped out onto the covers.

Fine silks, rich velvets, fabrics spun from so many kinds of colorful threads.

He rifles through the pile until he comes out with the most utilitarian clothes he owns. Simple waistcoats and breeches of broadcloth, shirts of linen and sparsely decorated, if at all, with simple designs embroidered in yellow thread to emulate gold against their rust red or emerald green background.

He packs these, along with his mother's box of heirlooms. He has opened it so many times, seen what was inside that it is memorized, written as a last loving letter from a mother he hardly knew to her only son.

Her whalebone comb, her chitin dagger. Her spider-silk hair ribbon, and her Dwarven metal earrings. The signet ring that was too small for her fingers, and that fit on Farwil's perfectly, but he knew that wearing it made his father ornery.

Well, he thinks to himself, flipping open the smooth wooden lid of the plain box.

He fishes out the silver ring, the motif on it is the same emblem found on the Cheydinhal banner, save for the middle, where the star of Azura was engraved instead.

His father may sound all nice and proper with his Arkay guide you's, but Farwil isn't quite sure about his own religion. What did he really believe in?

Did he believe in the Imperial divines, like his father, like his Imperial tutors, or did he believe in the Tribunal, like so many of the Dunmer in Cheydinhal? 

Did he believe in something else entirely, he asks himself, like his mother, with her Star of Azura embroidered on her funeral shroud in gold thread, Mephala and Boethiah's spider and serpent alongside it in silver?

Maybe he can believe in all of it.

Farwil wonders what Pallas believes in.

He slides the ring onto the third finger of his right hand.

A perfect fit. It glints dimly in the light of the hearth.

Farwil continues packing.

+

"I think folks in the guild will start to think something's up if you keep bringing in these hauls, my friend." Luciana grins as she sorts out the rubies on her velvet mat, and takes out her magnifying glass for a closer look.

Pallas leans back in his chair, and takes a sip of his wine.

"Let them talk. I've nothing to hide."

"What's with the sudden increase in activity, though? Most thieves usually bring in a few items a week, but these past few days… it's like you've been possessed by the shadows themselves! Not even a whisper from the guards, they've hardly noticed anything amiss."

Pallas shrugs. The wine is sweet and young, and a welcome change to the stuff he'd nicked from the castle cellars.

"'M getting married. I'm thinking of this as my… ah, what do you Imperials call it? My bachelor's night."

"You usually need more than one person to make it a bachelor's night."

"Anyone I would've celebrated it with is dead, but there's no use crying about it when there's pockets to pick." Pallas rests his chin on his hand.

Luciana seems a bit sympathetic.

"I understand. Our line of work is a hard one. Who is it, if I may ask?"

Pallas seems to perk up a bit. Luciana congratulates herself on her abilities to worm information out of the most morose souls.

"His name's Farwil."

"Sounds Elvish."

"Dunmer. Like me. He's not from Morrowind, though."

"And you're getting married here, in Bravil? Chapel of Mara, I presume."

"Well, a traditional Dunmer wedding is out of the question since there're no foyadas anywhere here. A Tribunal Temple wedding requires a Buoyant Armiger or an Ordinator, and you don't see them around. An Ashlander wedding requires a nix ox roast and a dowry of guar from one family to the other. So this is really the best we can do on such short notice."

Luciana's eyes widen. "Wow, there're that many types of Dunmer weddings? And to think, Nords don't even marry!"

Pallas laughs. "It's a matter of convenience."

"Is he trying to run away from home, or something? Why can't you just take the next caravan to Morrowind and get it done there?"

Pallas shrugs. "I've no plans to return soon. My family has disowned me, he doesn't know anyone there, and it's not like we're so religious that it has to be done a certain way. The Imperial way works fine, doesn’t it?”

Luciana nods, thinking it over.

“Will you be honeymooning?”  
“Honeymooning?”

“It’s a Breton thing, but Imperials do it too. You take some time off of life to be with your loved one someplace scenic, and there isn’t much to do except drink and… well, you know.” Luciana grins.

Pallas raises a brow. “There’s something to do. I could take him to my home in Anvil. It's nice there."

"Don't tell me you bought that awful manor."

"It was cheap," Pallas says, rolling his eyes. "Just had to take care of the lich in the basement, and it beat living in a shack on the waterfront of Imperial City."

"That's a dealbreaker for most, but not you. I think this Farwil is going to a lucky guy." 

Pallas sips his wine as Luciana counts out his coin. "The real lucky one is me."

She smiles at him, and as he leaves the Lonely Suitor Inn, he walks the evening streets of Bravil, humid and bug laden as they are, and looks up into the night sky. It's clear and dark like a precious jewel, and he sighs softly.

He was very lucky indeed.

+

Farwil's been riding on horseback for three days now, and finally, he's made it to Bravil.

Thank the powers that be, the bandits that did try to stop him fell to his blade, and he'd even found a wedding present for Pallas in the pockets of one of them.

The gates to that scummy city never looked so welcoming, as he gets off his horse, wraps his cloak around himself tighter. It's going to rain again, and Farwil can't help but think to himself, what a time to have a wedding.

He leads his horse to the stables, where it seems to get along swimmingly with Pallas', albeit the other horse being huge and its eyes glowing red in the night.

Weird horse.

Farwil strokes her muzzle, and she lets out a little huff of cold air. He remembers the first time he'd seen her, and Farwil had almost hidden behind Pallas as he led him up to her. Her cool tongue had lapped against his bare hand, and for a moment Pallas seemed distressed, until she seemed to ignore Farwil, and he sighed in relief.

_"She likes you," Pallas whispered to him, and Farwil let out a little laugh as her icy breath tickled his skin._

_"Does she? She seems like a fine horse."_

_"She is. She's the only reminder I have, of someone who was very important to me. Of many people who were important to me."_

_Farwil tilted his head, as he gently smoothed her curiously wavy mane. "Are they dead?"_

_Pallas' face hardens. "Yes. But I remember them, when I ride in the night, and they are like the wind beneath our wings. Aren't they, Shadowmere?"_

_The horse makes a noise like metal on stone, and Pallas smiles._

_"She thinks so too."_

+

Silverhome-on-the-Water is a nice inn, and Farwil's room is plenty spacious. The publican seems nice, albeit he has strange colloquialisms that make Farwil recoil. He doesn't think he wants to hear about cloacas as he takes his evening meal.

Farwil is about to head upstairs for the night, when Gilgondorin is wiping down the counter, scrutinizing him as Farwil counts out what remains in his coin purse, and the Altmer lets out an exclamation.

"You're the Count's son!"

Farwil feels heat rise to his cheeks. 

"Quiet down, you stupid elf-!"

"If I knew you were staying here, I'd have charged you double-"

"Yes, and how much do you want me to pay you for your silence?"

Gilgondorin seems to ponder this for a moment.

He shrugs and smiles at him.

"Well, how about you tell me what you're doing so far from Cheydinhal, first of all?"

Farwil crosses his arms across his chest.

"I'm getting married, and-"

"You wouldn't happen to be getting married to the guy staying at the Lonely Suitor, aren't you?" Gilgondorin grins, and Farwil knows the jig is up.

"Pallas? He's here?"

"Of course he is, he's in with his shady friends over there probably putting the finishing touches on his bridal gown. He's been asking around for you nearly every day!"

Farwil feels his face continue to heat up.

"He… he's really serious, isn't he?"

"I'd think so, he was with Luciana Galena and her cronies talking about how infatuated he was with you. I may be the only one who knows you're here, apart from your father," Gilgondoron suddenly squints at Farwil's guilt plainly written across his face. "Oh, but of course! You're eloping!"

"I'm not eloping!"

"But you sure didn't tell anyone of your plans to marry the local rabble rouser turned Champion of Cyrodiil, did you? Well, if anything, your father might be fond of the idea of you marrying a celebrated hero."

Farwil realizes that perhaps Gilgondorin had a point.

Why didn't he tell his father? After all, Pallas had rescued him from the planes of Oblivion, had kept him company after the deaths of his closest friends, and his father even seemed to like him, which was rare to see.

"I… it was sudden. I didn't know who to tell, and I-"

"You do know that there'll probably be folks sent after you now, looking for the kidnapped son of the count of Cheydinhal?" Gilgondorin seems all too happy about that, and Farwil's eyes widen.

"No!"

"Yes! What did you think would happen if you got up and walked out of the castle without explanation?"

Well, Farwil thinks to himself, certainly not that.

"I'm of age to do as I please, and it shouldn't concern my father where I go," Farwil huffs. Now, he's not sure if he's angry at his father, or at Gilgondorin for bringing this up in the first place.

Most likely, his father, because Gilgondorin's face seems to lose its amused look as he sees Farwil's face turn stormy, and Farwil begins to soften.

"Hey, you're right- you do get to decide where you go, but just don't expect your father to be so understanding, is all I'm saying. Anyways, if you need a place to stay for the wedding night, don't bother coming here- I don't want my other guests to be kept awake."

Farwil blushes so fiercely that his whole face seems to catch on fire, and he slaps down the tip on the counter as he's letting out an indignant gasp, and turns on his heel to stalk back upstairs as Gilgondorin laughs.

Despite being laughed at, which he usually hates, he doesn't find himself angry, and rather, when he closes the door behind him, and the heat has left his face, he laughs too.

+

It is Sundas morning, and Pallas is nervous.

He's donning his Elven armor, polished to a bright star gleam, and his hair is freshly washed, let out of its usual wind braids and set in curling papers overnight, making it curl loosely around his face. Luciana had carefully lined his eyes with a black powder, and set little smudges of golden pigment in the corners of his eyes, contrasting the blue of his skin and the red of his eyes perfectly.

He felt quite tarted up, and a bit silly, but as he waited at the altar for Farwil, he felt like this was right for the occasion. He wanted to look his best for his groom.

So he waits for Farwil, hoping he won't be left at the altar.

+

Farwil wakes up with a throbbing headache, and a sick feeling in his stomach.

His wrists hurt, and his ankles too, and he isn't sure why until he moves ever so slightly, and he lets out a pained gasp as the ropes binding him chafe at his wrists and his bare ankles, because of course, he had to get taken in the middle of the night.

Ah, fuck.

He's propped up against something wooden and a bit rickety, a crate perhaps, and the hearth is glowing softly in the dark of what seems to be a cellar.

He groans quietly, as he shifts his weight, he feels his thigh get jabbed by something sharp. A discarded knife, perhaps? If he could work it between the ropes-

He doesn't have time to think about formulating an escape, because the door to the cellar swings open, and in comes a burly, dirty looking Nord, balding and dressed in blacksmith's attire, followed by a tall, thin Altmer woman, with a dull face and a grease stained apron over her worn garments.

The woman carries a lantern that she holds aloft as she follows the Nord into the cellar, towards Farwil, who glares at them with the fiercest look he can muster. "What shall we do with him, Hans? Avenge our fallen master?"

"No, Ranaline, we have the upper hand here. He's the son of Count Indarys, can't you see we have an opportunity to leave this place? We can leave Bravil, ransom him… then we can flee, over the border to some other place… yes, that's the course of action we should take."

Farwil squirms away from Hans as he gets down on his knees to closely examine him.

"Then again, he's quite pretty, maybe he could get a nice price in Morrowind."

"If you even think about selling me as a slave, I'll cut your dick off and serve it to you for breakfast."

Ranaline doesn't seem amused, either.

"Hans, shut up. I don't want him getting hurt any more than he already has." Ranaline's scowl makes Hans back off, and Hans laughs, making Farwil sick to his stomach. He continues squirming until Hans backs away from him, and he relaxes.

He feels too bare, too vulnerable in his sleeping clothes, and he wishes he had sought out Pallas, wishes he wasn't a fool. He wants Pallas, needs him.

He can only hope that Pallas finds him quickly, before they start cutting off fingers or ears.

"We should send a message, y'know."

Ranaline looks at Hans skeptically. "What do you mean? We'll just write a letter and mail it off-"

"They're not going to believe us unless we send concrete proof we have him."

Oh, fuck, no-

Farwil doesn't stoop so low as to make cries of distress, but he can feel them bubble in his throat as Hans starts to unsheathe his dagger.

Ranaline looks panicked.

"Hans, what are you doing to him?"

"Nothing yet… you were going to get married to your precious little hero, weren't you? What's the ring finger again, hm…"

Farwil tries to buck Hans off of him as the Nord presses him back onto the crate, dagger at the ready.

What happens next is a blur as Farwil is overcome with panic and fear and Ranaline shouts something, but when its over, Farwil sees the deep nick of Hans' dagger showing bone on his ring finger, and he feels his stomach turn. 

Then, he realizes that apart from his heavy breathing, it's eerily silent.

He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the wet warmth of blood pooling beneath his hand. His head pounds, he feels faint, and it's most unbefitting for a knight to faint at blood-

Then he realizes the heavy breaths aren't his own, and he can hear a dull rasp to them.

His muscles tense up in fear, and he draws his knees close to his chest.

He opens his eyes, and in the dull light of the lantern Ranaline had been carrying, he can see Pallas looming above him, Daedric claymore over his head, as if about to be brought down upon him, and Farwil doesn't know if he should sigh in relief, or brace himself for the impact, because there's such a ferocious bloodlust in Pallas' eyes, he can't be sure if the mer sees him as friend or foe in that instant.

For those long moments, he can hear Pallas' breaths, almost a growl, and he watches the light play off of his face, illuminating the dark hollows of his decorated eyes, his fine nose, the plush lips that Farwil so often dreams of. He looks like some ancient spirit, in his golden armor, some avenging ghost come to take Farwil away.

"Pallas," he whispers, voice ragged.

Pallas drops the sword on the dusty floor with a clatter, and he drops to his knees besides Farwil, hugging him to his chest.

"Farwil," he exclaims, voice watery as if he were about to burst into tears. "What have they done to you-"

Farwil watches as Pallas slices through his bindings with his dagger, and he immediately hugs Pallas back as tight as he can, ignoring the blood he's smearing across his armor and into his hair. He cups Pallas' face, and kisses him deeply.

"They were- they were going to ransom me, I don't know how they found me, but I think-I think they overheard I was in town, because the stupid innkeep couldn't stop-"

"Shhh, shh, calm. Let me look." Pallas takes the hand tacky with blood from his cheek, examines the cut, and places his hand over it and closes his eyes, focusing on the wound as he begins to murmur a spell.

Farwil winces as he feels his muscle and skin stitching itself back together in a rudimentary fashion, for sure it would leave a scar, but at least he's not bleeding anymore, and he feels a bit more steady and clear headed.

"You'll be alright. You'll be safe now. I don't advise looking to your left, and when we go up the stairs, I'll lead you. Keep your eyes closed."

"Pallas, I'm not delicate. I know you killed them in your usual manner."

Pallas' face seems to work to hide the beginnings of a smile.

"As you wish."

Pallas takes his hand gently, lacing his gloved fingers with Farwil's bloodstained hand, and helps him to his feet. At least the floor was free of any broken glass or rocks, and Farwil stands to look down at the corpse of Hans, head cleaved open like a fruit, spilling its contents across the floor. Ranaline isn't much better off, her body slumped over the railing of the stairs, and further off, Farwil can see her head has rolled into the shadowy corner of the room.

Strangely enough, despite the heavy scent of blood, Farwil cannot find himself to be sick as he usually was. Holding Pallas' hand seems to steady him, and he nods in approval.

"I don't care what I have to do, if it means you are kept safe. I hope that… that I have proven that much."

"You did, a long time ago." Farwil looks over at Pallas, who is looking at him with an adoring gleam in his eye,. "Now come, I think we have a wedding to prepare for, don't we?"

Pallas, still seeming as if in a trance, nods. He manages to smile.

"Anything you ask for. But, a moment." Pallas lets go of his hand for only a moment, to retrieve his gore laden sword, and he is about to wipe the blood off with the corner of his cloak, when Farwil holds his hand out to take it from him.

Pallas watches, delighted, as Farwil holds the heavy claymore in one hand, his muscles working to keep it up, and with the other hand he picks up the torn corner of his shirt, and wipes it clean, leaving a bright red bloom across the hem of the garment. 

Farwil returns the sword to him, and Pallas shakes his head.

"No, keep it. You've always been a claymore user, haven't you?"

"I can't take something like this-"

"No, no. It's yours now. Besides, it suits you."

It suits Farwil, even as he is now. In that moment Pallas sees the knight in him, so wonderful and strong and bright.

+

They both stay with S'krivva after they clean up at Silverhome-on-the-water, where both Pallas and Farwil shoot Gilgondorin a look so dirty that he shrinks back and turns away from them, apparently ashamed.

S'krivva says she was only talked into it because Luciana begged her to, and that "a wedding was the most exciting thing that could happen all month", and that Luciana felt bad because Ranaline probably overheard them talking about Farwil and the wedding, and she had to make it up to them somehow, by… having them stay with S'krivva.

S'krivva kept complaining about it as she presented Farwil with a clean set of bedclothes.

"Exciting, this one will show her exciting. This one will wed her if she does not stop talking about how exciting weddings are, then she will see."

Pallas is polishing his armor yet again in the corner of the room, and he speaks, amusement in his voice.

"Finally going to get around to it, are you? I think she's been waiting on a proposal for months now."

S'krivva grumbles, and leaves them be.

"Alone now, hm?"

"Yes, all alone." Pallas puts down the gauntlet he was polishing, and sits besides Farwil on the bed. Farwil sighs as Pallas kisses him chastely, without the usual ardour he displayed.

"I'm not made of glass, my knight."

"I know. But, you weren't-"

"I'm fine. Perfectly unharmed." Farwil kisses him deeply, and Pallas seems to relax and let Farwil lead the two of them, pushing Pallas back onto the bed, his hair curtaining Pallas' face. Pallas strokes it back behind his ears, holding it back.

The first kiss is still tentative, and Pallas wants more than anything to get up, but Farwil’s hands keep him pinned to the bed.

“Let me do this, please.”

Pallas nods. He parts his lips for Farwil, and they slot together like pieces of a puzzle.

Farwil hums happily. Pallas’ lips are always so soft and warm, and right now they taste like cherries and matze.

Their noses bump together a bit, but Farwil tilts his head and he’s able to avoid it- Pallas’ nose, although handsome, often got in the way during their kisses.

He continues kissing down from his mouth to his neck, and he begins unbuttoning Pallas’ shirt, pleased with the way Pallas arcs up into his touch. The fabric falls away to reveal a toned, strong torso, marred by a large, star shaped scar beneath Pallas’ left pec, wrapping around, Farwil knows, to his spine, almost like the tail of a comet.

Farwil knows Pallas can’t feel it, yet he traces the outline of the star all the same. When his fingers leave the deadened skin, and touch the live warmth, Pallas gives a little shudder and roll of his hips.

It’s only when Farwil touches Pallas' waistband that Pallas finally protests aloud.

“No, not right now.”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me that the Imperial custom of saving yourself for marriage is something you follow now. We’ve gone against it multiple times.”

“Farwil…” Pallas shakes his head. “I… not right now. You’ve been through a lot. Just… let’s go to bed instead, how about it?”

“If I get to hold you, yes.” Farwil sighs and crawls back up the bed, and drawing Pallas into a cuddle, hugs him tightly. 

Pallas wheezes, Farwil is strong, but that’s what he gets for letting him be the big spoon. Even then, he still feels wonderfully safe and secure in Farwil’s arms. He sighs a bit as he feels Farwil continue to press lazy kisses to the nape of his neck, his fingers continuing their path around his scar. The touch isn’t sexual- but something Farwil often did, once the afterglow set in and they’d curl up together, sweaty and slick, enjoying the simple pleasure of simply existing together, legs tangled with legs and hair mussed, eyes heavy lidded with sleep, just like now.

Pallas could turn around and kiss Farwil to death right now, but the fight’s gone out of him, and now, with the simple pleasure of Farwil, safe, arms wrapped around him, thigh nudging its way in between Pallas’ leg, mouth brushing his shoulder, sleep quickly begins to overtake him.

+

Farwil is handsome, very much so, as he strides through the door of the chapel in his steel armor, bright and gleaming, a dark indigo sash tied around his waist, embroidered with Nibenese golden thread. His hair was in its usual style, wind braids keeping it from falling in his face, which seemed to glow with pride as he took his place besides Pallas at the altar.

Pallas, though not so put together as he was yesterday, still had lingering traces of kohl around his eyes, and his hair was combed neatly and loose over his shoulders. It was getting long, almost as long as Farwil's. Maybe he'd grow it out..

Luciana and S'krivva looked content as they sat together, Luciana's lace gloved hand holding S'krivva's fuzzy paw. A few stragglers from the morning’s service had hung back to see the first marriage the Chapel had held since the crisis. Bravil wasn’t known for having weddings hosted there, despite it being the only Chapel of Mara in Cyrodiil. Most preferred to be married somewhere that wasn’t swampy and dank, but for Pallas and Farwil, committed to their obscurity, this was perfect.

Pallas knows that they know he’s Champion, but they probably don’t know that Farwil is Farwil Indarys, next in line to be Count of Cheydinhal.

The Imperial way of weddings was pleasant and short, and before either of them new it, as they stood arm in arm in front of the priest, they had received their blessing of Mara, and the priest pronounced them husbands.

Farwil looked over at Pallas, who looked back at him apologetically, as if to say, _sorry it wasn’t so extravagant, my love._ It was quiet except for a little smatter of applause when they rose from the altar after the priest had dismissed them with the customary ring gifted to newlyweds.

They both feel a bit flustered, as the priest gives them the motion to kiss, and they both feel so inexperienced as they manage to press their lips together in a very awkward kiss. As Farwil takes Pallas’ arm in his, and they walk down the aisle out of the chapel, Pallas tilts his head to be able to whisper into Farwil’s ear.

“We leave tonight for Anvil, my love.”

“Why?”

“I won’t be living in Cheydinhal, I’m afraid. If you want to be with me, you must come to Anvil, or not at all.”

Farwil furrows his brow.

“We never discussed this-”

“Please, just listen to me. You’ll like it there. I have a home there, a big, lovely mansion. And it’s so lonely, without you. We’ll honeymoon there.”

“I-” Farwil bites his tongue as he starts off in a hard tone. “Pallas, I don’t think you know what you’re asking me for.” He feels heat start to rise up his collar.

“I know very well what I’m asking you for. I’m asking you to live in Anvil with me,” Pallas continues smoothly, in his no-nonsense tone that while comforting at times, made Farwil want to wipe that calm, unbothered look off his face.

“You’re asking for more than that.” Farwil doesn’t care who hears them now, that they’re out on the street. “You’re asking me to abandon everything I know about. My status as heir, the knights-"

"Oh, please. As if there's even an order to be had in that lodge," Pallas says, bitingly. "Are you still the same foolhardy brat I met in that gate?" Pallas is now walking to the stables, and Farwil wants to knock him on the head for thinking he can walk away from this one.

"I am most assuredly _not_ , you're the one stupid enough to think that I'd just abandon it all for-for a man!"

"You're here, we're married in the eyes of the law, how'll you explain that to your father, eh? 'Sorry about any marriage proposals you've arranged for me, I'm married to a common brigand'?"

"If I have to explain it that way, then I will!" Farwil shouts, now standing with his fists curled tight at his sides. Pallas mounts Shadowmere, obviously unhappy with his response.

"If you change your mind, seek me out in Anvil, husband. Benirus Manor- can't miss it."

Farwil wants to throw something at him. Just like Pallas to be riding off instead of facing the music.

He stamps his foot and punches the fence of the paddock instead, rattling the old wooden beams.

Curse Pallas, and his need to have the last say in everything.

Farwil turns back to head into the city again.

But he's thinking of what Pallas said.

When he gets to S'krivva's house, he feels a sense of being tugged in two directions. On one hand, he wants nothing more than to ride into the sunset with Pallas, live out their happily ever after with his man.

On the other hand, he wants to ride back into Cheydinhal, but what then? Laze about with no one willing to speak to him? Return to Cheydinhal married and with nothing to show for it?

Without Pallas, it would be like nothing had changed for him.

Farwil grits his teeth, and enters S'krivva's house.

S'krivva is reading, Luciana must have returned to her own place.

"You've returned. Where is Pallas?"

"On his way to Anvil, no doubt. And I am not fool enough to follow him." Farwil stomps into the guest room to retrieve his pack and the huge claymore that Pallas had gifted him, and S'krivva watches with amusement as he tucks the claymore under his arm.

"Yet you follow him, yes? You go well armed."

"I haven't much of a choice, have I? He's important to me. Much too important. Not like I want to go back to Cheydinhal and have to explain myself either." Farwil feels his heart beat in his throat in equal parts want and anger. "Thank you, S'krivva. I wish you and Luciana the best of luck."

That seems to make S'krivva perk up a bit.

"Why… thank you, Farwil. S'krivva wishes you and Pallas the best as well. And she is sure Luciana does as well."

Farwil nods.

"You… you don't think I'm being foolish, do you?"

S'krivva shrugs.

"You married him. He's your problem now, as much as you are his. He can be a hard bargain. But you must know this by now, if you married him. Can you accept the cost?"

Farwil thinks.

Gods, he does love the man. He wants to be with him more than anything else in the world. No one makes him feel so loved and secure, like he was worth all the gold in the world.

Is he being stubborn?

"S'krivva, he asked me to live with him in Anvil, and we… we had a disagreement. I don't know what to do. It's so far from Cheydinhal, and he wants me to just… just go." Farwil shifts his weight. "Should I?"

"S'krivva knows enough about marriage to know that sacrifices are made. Not all of them are fair. But perhaps it is for the best."

Farwil feels his head pulse. What had started off as an idyllic morning had turned into another dilemma.

Maybe it was just him still feeling the effects of getting knocked out and kidnapped.

"I… perhaps. I can't really go back, anyways. Not like I was doing much in Cheydinhal. Standing around waiting for my turn on the throne. No one speaks to me there. No one spares me a second glance. Anvil… Anvil could be different."

S'krivva turns a page in her book.

"You see? It will not be so bad. At least you'll have each other there."

Farwil relaxes.

"I suppose so…" he says, and then turns to look over at her. "Thank you, S'krivva. I… I feel more confident about this, now. This will be good for us both, the change of scenery."

"This one is simply happy to help you make a decision, though you had your heart set on it anyways, it seems. Now get along, he can't have gotten far."

Farwil nods, and leaves her home feeling considerably lighter, despite the hulking claymore strapped to his back and his heavy pack in hand.

\---

It's quite the journey from Bravil to Anvil, and as Farwil takes the same path Pallas must've taken, he sees evidence of the trail he leaves through the countryside.

A put out fire here, a matted down patch of grass there.

_Don't be silly, Farwil. Perhaps he didn't even leave this._

It doesn't stop Farwil from putting down his own sleeping roll in the same spot, and if he closes his eyes tight and thinks hard enough, he can feel Pallas' warm body against his back, and every brush of the wind on his cheek is like his lover's kiss.

His _husband's_ kiss.

The first leg of his journey takes him through the West Weald, to Skingrad, the imposing, dark town, with its spires rising high in the air.

Farwil laughs to himself as he sees Castle Skingrad rise in the distance. He remembers being scared to death of its count as a young boy.

He wonders if Pallas has met the count. Surely he has, considering he's spent the past month running all over the land.

Farwil stables his horse for the night, and stops at an inn to rest. After locking up his belongings in his room, he comes downstairs for dinner. A rather sumptuous meal of lamb chops and a bowl of vegetable soup, with a couple glasses of mulled wine to warm up as a chill settles over the fair country.

He sits by the fire, dressed in plain clothes, wrapping his coat around himself tight. It still smells like home. Lightly perfumed with incense and his own cologne, and the scent of fabric stored away with its companions in a drawer.

His heart aches for a moment.

Would he ever see Cheydinhal again?

He shakes his head. Of course he would. He was heir to the throne, after all.

But not for some time.

His father was old, yes, but not so old that he was going to be dropping dead anytime soon.

Farwil estimates he has another thirty, forty years to wait on him inheriting the throne, unless his father concedes it.

He wonders what it'd be like.

Difficult, for one. Farwil can't imagine himself being popular, considering his absolute ineptitude as a knight, would he be just as bad being a ruler?

He loved Cheydinhal, its honeysuckle scented evenings and cool riverbanks, its streets lined with old cobblestones growing tiny blossoms between the cracks. A beautiful city, one that he wants to keep safe.

He's going to miss her.

The memories.

His mother leading him by the hand through the streets, taking his first horse ride through its grassy, rolling fields. His first drink with his late friends.

He gazes into the fire for so long he's sure his wine has gone cold. Oh well. He puts the mug down on the table next to him, and sighs as he rises up to his feet.

Tomorrow, another leg of the journey, and he'd be home soon.

\---

The vineyards of the West Weald are beautiful, rolling over hills beneath Castle Skingrad. When Farwil stops, he ties his horse up to a young plum tree, and sits down, before taking out the little fabric wrapped bundle in his saddle bag, and a little wooden box.

He opens the bundle. 

In it is a pair of thick, heavy earrings.

They're made from a beautiful metal- Ayleid silver, perhaps. They're simple, fashioned into discs hammered out from the metal, and in the center of each disc, a bright blue stone lays within the eye of a gryphon.

They're a bit dull, dirty, and specked with blood from where Farwil had killed the previous owner, a bandit on his way to Bravil. Must've stolen them or raided an Ayleid ruin for them.

In the little wooden box is his sword polishing kit. He supposes that metals must be pretty similar, and wetting the cloth with a bit of water from his wineskin, he's able to scrub off the dirt and grime caked onto them. The bandit had been keeping them on a chain around their neck, til Farwil had yanked it off, and they'd landed in the dirt.

Finally, they're clean enough. He picks up a little flask of oil from the kit, and polishes the fastenings. They close by way of the wire hooking beneath a little arm, so they were more secure than just simple hooks. Similar to the earrings Pallas wore. 

Once the fastenings move clean and smooth, Farwil has to find a better place to keep them than the dirty rag they'd been wrapped in. He looks in his saddlebag, and manages to find a red silk scarf he'd packed with him. Wrapping them up in the scarf, he puts it in the bag at his side.

He takes a longer break than intended, but it's nice here. The breeze is soft and the sun is mild, occasionally disappearing behind clouds, before coming out again. Farwil is too on guard to doze off though, not after Bravil.

He supposes it's affected him. A shiver in his nerves that wasn't there before.

But when he thinks of Pallas, it melts away, and he sighs.

His original distaste at the thought of leaving Cheydinhal was draining away.

It'd be good for them. Too many memories in Cheydinhal. Too many memories of loss.

In Anvil, they might gain something.

Farwil gets back in the saddle, and he leaves the tall, imposing city of Skingrad behind him.

Tonight, he'd be in Anvil.

\---

Pallas sweeps the front porch as the sky darkens.

There isn't much else to do. The house is clean, he's tidied up the mess in the drawing room and sorted out all the potions from the alcohol in the liquor cabinet. 

A sleek black cat sleeps on the bench next to the window, and he sits besides it. He pets it between the ears.

He'd stay in Cheydinhal if he could.

He'd let Farwil have his wish, but everytime Pallas passes by the abandoned house, he remembers that awful night. Blood coating his hands, broken bodies surrounding him.

Too much of a coward to even look his lover in the eye as he ran him through with his own sword.

Pallas was sick all day the next day.

The day after that, too.

He almost wished that they'd gotten the jump on him, that he'd never listened to Lucien.

Why did he?

He didn't believe in the Wrath of Sithis, no, he didn't believe in the Night Mother either. He didn't believe any of it.

He stops petting the cat.

He just didn't want anything worse to happen. Anyone else to do it.

For the past year, they'd been a family. Something like it. And Pallas would've been damned if he'd let anyone else subject his family to a death that wasn't quick and painless.

And it was, for most of them. Save the archer, who Pallas saw mauled by a bear in the hills.

But that wasn't his fault.

He had left Cheydinhal fairly quickly, and the business with Lucien and the Brotherhood was over as far as he knew.

It makes his heart ache to think of it.

Especially….

No, he can't let himself go down that path again. Lovers lost are something he won't let himself be hung up on.

But for him to have been responsible for ending that centuries old smile, to deliver his blade to that heart he held so dear….

Pallas feels bile rise in his throat. He swallows it down, and gets up, going back into the house.

When the door closes behind him, he lets out a shaking breath.

The embers in the hearth are getting low, and he has to prepare dinner for Farwil when he gets here.

Putting himself to work, he saves his tears for another night.

\---

Farwil arrives on the doorstep of Benirus Manor, pack in hand, and anticipation blossoming in his throat.

It's a fine old house, classic Anvil style with white limestone walls and ivy growing all round it, in curtains. The windows glow golden with the light from within.

Pallas must be home. 

He thumps on the heavy wooden door with the bronze knocker.

Almost immediately, the door opens, and Farwil is face to face with his husband.

"Pallas."

"Farwil."

Farwil smiles, a bit shyly. He isn't sure what to do.

"I… the place is bigger than I thought."

"Oh, well… it's got lots of space. Come in."

Farwil steps across the threshold, drops his pack on the floor, and just as soon as Pallas closes the door, he descends upon him like a wolf.

Farwil lets out a soft little sigh as Pallas kisses him ferociously. Now that was certainly a way to be welcomed home.

Pallas' lips taste like honey and pan fried potatoes, and Farwil almost smiles. He pulls off his gloves to tangle them through Pallas' hair, tilting the smaller mer's head up as he cranes his own neck down to be able to kiss him properly.

Pallas hugs him tight, breathless as he tries to speak between kisses.

"Farwil, I'm so-oh, I'm so happy. So happy you're here."

Farwil almost laughs as Pallas loses his breath over him, he holds him tight against his chest, and rocks unsteadily on the heels of his boots as the mer nearly bowls him over.

"I've got something for you," Farwil says, and digs out the little bundle wrapped in the scarf from his pack.

He hands it to Pallas, and watches his face light up.

"Where did you get something like this? They must've cost a fortune-"

"No, no, don't you worry about the price. I'm sure you've seen more expensive things anyways."

"These are gorgeous. Thank you, Farwil." 

"Here, let me."

Farwil hooks them through his ears, and Pallas smiles as he touches the fine silver.

"Do they look good on me?"

"Incredible."

Pallas ducks his head, and Farwil admires the contrast of the bright silver against his dark hair and skin.

“I’ve missed you. It’s only been two days, but I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Pallas draws back and gazes into his eyes. They gleam wetly, and Farwil’s expression falls.

“Oh, don’t cry, please-”

“I’m not crying, am I-?” Pallas blinks and raises a hand to wipe at his eyes. His fingers come away glittering. “Fuck. I am.”

Farwil nods. Something inside him wavers, and he finds his nose stuffy suddenly. He reaches out for Pallas’ cheek and brushes away the tear that starts rolling down his cheek.

“Oh, Mephala vex me.” Pallas hugs Farwil tightly again.

Farwil buries his face into Pallas’ sleek jet hair, and sighs. He smells warm and salty, but not unpleasant. It’s the scent of comfort, of waiting.

“I have you come all the way out here and I start crying,” Pallas says, voice muffled against his breast.

“Do you think I care about that? I just care about you. I was thinking about you, every step of the way here.” Farwil tips his chin up to look at his husband.

“Ah, damn.” Pallas kisses him again.

“Now, let me get comfortable, eh?” Farwil shucks off his coat and tosses it over the arm of a chair nearby, and Pallas takes his bag.

“I have dinner ready. Still warm. It’s not very intricate-”

“Anything you’ve made will be enough for me. More than enough.” Farwil smiles as he watches Pallas, dressed in fine red velvet garments and with his cat-like slink, move around the house. He sits down in a chair close to the fire, and leans back. There are paintings all over the house, and he notices a splotch of turquoise on the carpet where Pallas must’ve spilt paint.

They’re beautiful paintings. None of them are the same, each of them showcasing a strange landscape.

Vvardenfell, Farwil realizes.

He knew Pallas wasn’t native to Cyrodiil, but he himself had never visited the motherland.

He quietly surveys the paintings as he hears Pallas clinking cutlery and plates about in the next room.

Tall, towering mushrooms spiring over ashy grasslands, little forms of guar and nix ox and their shepherds. Portraits of not just nobility, but common folk. He recognizes Luciana’s coquettish gaze as it hangs over a bouquet of alkanet, opposite a young blonde woman with an equally impish expression.

There are men, too. A handsome orc with gleaming, gold inlay tusks, and behind him, the tip of a finely pointed, pierced ear catches Farwil’s attention.

He gets up, and carefully moves the canvas.

Lifelike, just like the rest of the paintings, is the amused smile of a vampire.

It’s the most casual of the paintings, Farwil reckons. Unlike the others, they all seem to have been posing, done up in their nicest clothing, and hair carefully arranged.

The vampire’s hair is spilling over his shoulders in dark waves, pale and gaunt face the frame of tired pink eyes and a smile that could put a cat’s to shame. His fangs are sharp and Pallas’ expert brushwork shows the way they dig into his bottom lip so vividly that Farwil almost fears he’ll leap off the canvas.

As Farwil holds the canvas, he hears Pallas re-enter the sitting room.

“Who’s this chap, Pallas?”

Pallas is curiously silent. He sets down the plates of food on the table, and sinks down on the couch quickly.

“Please, Farwil, put that away.”

“I’m just curious,” Farwil says.

“ _Please_ ,” Pallas repeats, weakly.

Farwil sees how it’s affecting him, and he looks back to the painted gaze of the vampire.

“Alright.”

Dinner is awkward.

The warm atmosphere of earlier has been replaced with something mysterious, ambiguity swirling in clouded depths.

He watches Pallas sip at his wine.

“Do you want to-”

“No.”

The sharp, clipped tone makes Farwil almost wince.

“Alright. We all have our secrets.”

Pallas nods, and watches Farwil drink his wine.

The portrait of Vicente brought back unbidden memories, memories he’d sworn to repress.

Silk soft hair curling through his fingers, fangs pressing against skin and the cool metal of golden rings against the small of his back. The scent of blood and roses, void salts and clean water.

Pallas takes a deep breath.

“I… one day, I will tell you. But not today.”

Farwil nods. His smile is sincere, eyes earnest.

“Was he important to you?”

“Yes. Beyond words.” Pallas’ voice is no more than a whisper, and Farwil hums.

“I understand.” Farwil gets up, and sits besides Pallas on the couch opposite from his chair.

Pallas shakes as Farwil holds him, and his tremors turn into sobs.

“Shh. It’s alright.”

“I don’t want to-” Pallas says, cutting himself off with a cry.

“We all have to cry sometimes. Dunmer customs be damned.” Farwil rubs his back as Pallas continues to cry quietly against his chest.

“Why don’t we turn in for the night. I’ll tuck you in and I’ll clean up down here.” Farwil gets up and takes Pallas by the hand, leading him towards what he hopes is the bedroom.

He assumes correctly, and he helps Pallas under the quilt covering the bed.

Pallas’ skin shimmers with his tears. Farwil sighs, and kisses the bridge of his nose.

“You’ll be alright. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Farwil smiles, and leaves the room. 

Clearing the plates away, he puts them to soak in the basin in the kitchen.

Returning to the living room to put away the decanter of wine, he sees the painting of the vampire where he’d left it on the table.

There’s a clear spot on the mantelpiece, right above the crackling fireplace.

Farwil carefully props the painting up against the brickwork, between dried bouquets of roses.

It’s a fitting place, for a love long gone.

He isn’t jealous, no. He knows Pallas loves him.

He just wants Pallas to know he can love the memory of the man in the painting too.

He leaves the room after smothering out the fire, and blowing out the last of the candles. It’s a cool Anvil night, and though the stone floors will soon grow cold, he knows that next to Pallas, he’ll be warm.

Undressing and sneaking into bed besides his husband, he holds Pallas against his chest. The mer is sleeping calmly now, and Farwil presses a gentle kiss to the nape of his neck.

When the day comes, then they can talk.

For now, they rest, and Farwil finds that he’s at peace, for the first time in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> well... it is done. i've been very productive recently, hope to keep it up! title comes from Falling, by Florence+The Machine. Some clarification here, because my poor little heart can't handle it, Pallas purified the sanctuary and assumed Vicente is dead, but in my canon, Vicente manages to survive and hides out in Skingrad with Janus. I love him too much to kill him off! But the "loss" of his lover at his own hands makes Pallas basically go right to farwil's door and seek some kind of comfort with him. He does honestly love Farwil, but, he has issues. Also, sorry Farwil.


End file.
